On a recent visit to the Chicago Writers Museum, I conceived the idea of giving my eldest grandson the gift of a lifetime—something small, forever to keep.
An exhibit featured brief short stories by named authors including Sibylla Nash. I pressed a button on an upright mechanism, similar to an electronic ticket machine. It spooled out a slender, two-foot-long paper containing all of her tale, The Big BOO!
No charge.
Ten-year-old X is a voracious reader, and the story suited him, but it wasn’t the yarn that made it a distinctive present. My handwritten note beside the title on the narrow page offered this:
For X from Grandpa. To be read to your brother Z, your children, and your grandchildren!
Yes, I was thinking ahead, but looking back, as well.
My own grandfather was on my mind when I inscribed this request to a boy I love. Leo Fabian was an imperfect yet loving man whom I last saw when I was a teenager. Mom and I went to the hospital, knowing the dreadful speed of his life’s clock and the shortness of his time.
Grandpa sat upright in his bed, watching TV, but his still blankness suggested a man defeated, the loser in the battle with Death, a larger than Life opponent with an undefeated record.
An artist would have needed only one color to paint Leo Fabian’s likeness that day—a gray man of gray hair and skin, with a face robbed of expression.
My mother entered first, but when I appeared a few steps behind her, his face came to life. He held out his arms and we hugged each other. One of those indelible memories you relive but for the touch. The touch you want more than anything.
I own faded photos of him, but I don’t have any videos or recordings of his voice. In their absence, it will be harder to tell my grandchildren what made him important to me.
No one else is left to do it, as my brothers were too young to know him well.
My grandad and I worked in proximity to each other at my uncle’s business during the days I had an after-school job. This son of Romania crossed the Atlantic to come to our promising land. He spoke several languages, and I listened to him use them. I recognized the charm, wit, and joy he carried and carried him through much of his life.
And I knew he loved me.
On occasion, he used the phrase “kick the bucket” well before he was inches away from the metaphor turning real. An event now long past.
Leo Fabian would be proud and happy that I think of him and pleased with this quiet honor. Writing his name, bringing it to life, and saying it out loud for nothing more than his remembered love. Such is part of a Jewish custom.
I wish the world permitted me to reach back in time and show you how he walked, spoke, and joked. His animated smile would have taken you in, with its sense of mischief, and the scent of the aftershave he applied to his cheeks. The twinkle in his eye, his imposing height, the width of his wrists, and the strength in his hands all said this was a man.
Not the bad stuff in his life, just the best in him.
The record of my life is more comprehensive than my grandfather’s, yet whatever is told or shown of it, whenever I am gone, at the end, love is what matters.
James Lucas wrote this in a Substack essay on September 11, 2025:
So many of us drift through life as if wrapped in a fog, caught in the monotony of routine, numbed by a rhythm that feels imposed rather than chosen. We move like sleepwalkers, bound by the weight of what we think we should be doing.
And yet, it’s only when we truly grasp that our time is slipping away that the most beautiful part of us rises to the surface. Perhaps it’s because, when everything is stripped down to its essence, the noise disappears… and the thing that remains is love.
Love as the purest truth of who we are. Love is the only weapon we’ve been given against the cruelty of life.
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The painting is titled “Old Man and Grandson” by Ghirlandaio. The cropped section shown here was done by Frank Vincentz and sourced from Wikimedia Commons.
It is followed by a photo titled “Hand of Grandpa and Grandson” by Nikhil More. The source is the same.
Dr. Stein, this was beautiful and truly touching. My own grandparents hold such a special place in my heart and in my memory, so I could feel–viscerally–the love and respect you have for your grandfather, and the adoration and hope you hold for your grandson. You’re absolutely right, though. When all else is stripped away, what remains is love.
Much appreciated, Erin. We both share the message of hope for young ones, don’t we? You for a child yet to be, and me, for two boys just beginning.
Yes, we do. Children are the future, so what better use of time and energy is there than paving the way, and sharing the wisdom and love to help youngster stay the course.
Beautiful. LOVE indeed. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you, Frank. I am happy the message resonates, buddy.
How lovely…I think Leo Fabian would be in awe of his grandson. ❤️ What a beautiful tribute, full of reminders to remember, cherish, love. Especially those handwritten notes. We were just discussing that in the Atkinson house with our daughter…the magic of her grandmother’s handwriting. Powerful! Thank you, too, for the excerpt of James Lucas’ essay.
It never occurred to me until now, but I have only one faded copy of my grandfather’s signature. Nothing else. To the good, I have a large photographic portrait in my office, including him, my grandmother, and my Aunt Nettie, their first child. My grandmother is pregnant with my mother (apparently), which dates the photo: 1918. Thank you, Vicki.
Photos…handwritten notes…all so good! ❤️🥰❤️
“And yet, it’s only when we truly grasp that our time is slipping away that the most beautiful part of us rises to the surface. Perhaps it’s because, when everything is stripped down to its essence, the noise disappears… and the thing that remains is love.”
This is very timely for me to read. My mother passed away last night from congestive heart failure from pneumonia, and my daughter and I were on the phone with my brother so we could give her a send-off for her last couple of hours.
She was finally able to let go of the hatred and judgment she had held onto regarding my daughter since she was 8 years old. Yes, my daughter was supposed to have borne her ill will, completely untrue, but it blocked my mother from being able to have a relationship with her granddaughter and later her great grandchildren.
Last night she realized none of that mattered anymore and she was finally able to say “I love you” to my daughter.
We gave her a loving send-off, because we wanted her spirit to leave in peace. This was only possible because of all the deep inner healing we each have done in ourselves.
Love is the most important thing, and when we know it, we can choose to live our lives differently.
A heartfelt tribute to your grandfather, Dr. Stein. Your two closing sentences are so powerfully expressed: “Love as the purest truth of who we are. Love is the only weapon we’ve been given against the cruelty of life.” The Masters of Capital would us to believe otherwise.
Thank you, Rosaliene. Funny how a trip to the Writers Museum led me to underline something I have been feeling more and more. As you’ve suggested, we all would do well to consider whether the empire of dollars should triumph over the love of our fellow men.
wonderful –
Thank you, Beth. A good word and I am grateful.
Lovely, lovely, lovely. Thanks for sharing this.
Many thanks, Gregory. I am glad you found it worthwhile. Thank you for reading.
What an incredible tribute to your grandfather, Dr. Stein. I’m sure your grandson will remember what you did and pass it down to future generations.
Thank you, Edward. I hope so. I’d like to say “we shall see,” but I guess if I were going to “see,” I’d not have felt the need to do what I did!
You’re welcome, and I think the word “intentional” is appropriate in this case, reflecting the importance of the moment.
This is a heart-warming look forward and look back, Dr. Stein. You’re right – love is the thing that makes it all worthwhile! Beautiful essay!
Thank you, Wynne. Love would seem to be in competition these days, but for some of us we must be sure that love prevails. I know that this is essential to you, as well.
Absolutely!
Beautiful Life lessons wonderfully told!
Thank you, Dr. Stein
Much appreciated, Mr. Keith. Aging sometimes offers a new perspective. In the present case, it did for me.